I don’t know this hagoita, says the monk.
Ayoshi laughs, covering her mouth, and the monk blushes, embarrassed that she is laughing at him. She tells him the game is what girls play around New Year’s. A game for good luck.
And we need some good luck, says Hayashi, pouring himself another glass.
And we need to forget our misfortunes so the new year brings something better, says Sato. So drink up and think about all the awful things you’d like to put behind you.
You make it sound so easy, says Ayoshi.
Why not? says Sato, reaching for the sake bottle. Why shouldn’t life be easy?
The house is warm, and the monk, who worked too long, can’t think of anything except what floats up in front of him, the warm cup pressed against his cold, red hands, the sake in the folds of his mouth. He empties the glass and looks over at her. The bottle of hot sake goes around again, and the monk’s glass is refilled.
Look at the snow, says Ayoshi, rising. Still holding her bird paddle, she stands by the window and presses her hand to the glass. Her breath makes a fogged, milky circle. I’ve always thought the earth had secret openings. White patches that fall into the deep center. What do you think lies at the center of the earth? she asks, turning to the others.
Gold and more sake, says Sato.
Thick, rich mud and the bones of the dead, says Hayashi. Oh, yes. She wants this evening to be fun. That’s what you said earlier, right? Then gold and tubes of paint for you.
The monk is still standing by the doorway, and now he sees her feet are bare. Her toes, smooth and perfect, her toenails, milky white.
It’s remarkable, says the monk. Your imagination. The bird. It looks so real.
You’ve brought in the rainwater, says Hayashi, pointing to a muddy puddle spreading on the floor. Hurry now. Go change your clothes or you’ll flood us.
Sato gazes steadily at the monk.
The monk looks down. The puddle is running across the floor and now staining the hem of her kimono.
Let’s not be serious tonight, she says. Let’s not be serious ever again.
For the new year, my wish is that we all go to Europe, says Sato. We’ll go to Italy. There is lush food, fruit all year round—
Wonderful, she says, laughing.
Red plums and green grapes and thick pastries with white frosting. Tomatoes as sweet as sugar. You’ve probably never eaten a tomato, have you? I’ll order four boxes of them and we’ll spend a day eating tomatoes. Sato stops and turns to the monk, still standing there in his wet clothes. Except the monk probably couldn’t endure such indulgences, could you? I suppose you’ll just have to stay here.
Ayoshi lets herself imagine Italy. What if she leaves with Sato, travels to these places they once dreamed about as children? She could have her freedom, and there would be no more heavy silences, no more feet that never heal, only paintbrushes and these tomatoes as sweet as sugar.
At the center of the earth, says the monk, lost souls, or maybe nothing, nothing at all.
Oh, now, don’t be dismal, says Sato.
Yes, don’t be so dismal, says Ayoshi. The color is still bright in her cheeks. Not tonight.
We’re having a party, says Sato, who moves closer to Ayoshi. The new year is around the corner, and we don’t want to make the gods angry. What would you like to forget, Hayashi?
Shinto gods, says the monk. You mean Shinto gods.
Sato turns abruptly and faces the monk. Of course, says Sato. I pray to them all or none at all. It depends on the day and time of year.
What would I want to forget? asks Hayashi, who pops open another bottle of sake.
What’s so bad about Shintoism, really? says Sato. Are you aware of any of the precepts? Even I, who haven’t been to a Shinto or a Buddhist ceremony in a very long time, can recall a few. Let’s see. Don’t be sluggish in your work. Now, what’s wrong with that? You believe in that, don’t you?
I think the monk is cold, says Hayashi, still smiling. Let him go change his clothes.
Oh yes, says Sato, bearing down on the monk. Here’s another. The world is one family. What do the Buddhists think is wrong with that? Sato’s eyes are darting and flickering.
We agree with that, says the monk, his voice firm.
Sato, says Hayashi, his smile vanishing. Let him go change into dry clothes. Look at him. He’s shivering.
What’s wrong with believing that spiritual forces pervade the natural world? asks Sato. Where did I read this? It was a beautiful line. Oh, yes. Sato closes his eyes and recites, Myriad spirits shine like fireflies and every tree and bush can speak. He opens his eyes again. Beautiful. Shintoism teaches you to love the world with its spirits. And what does Buddhism teach? All is transitory. We’ll be dead soon, so turn your back to the world. Isn’t that right?
Ayoshi finishes her drink and noisily sets down her glass. The Ainu believe that hanging the forepaws of a hare over the doorway wards off the spirit of demon disease.
Hayashi looks over at Ayoshi, his mouth slightly ajar.
I’m not sure how it helps anyone to think there are eight million gods floating around in this world, says the monk. If you adhere to that, you ignore the core of the Buddhist teaching.
Which is? asks Sato.
You’ll suffer if you remain attached to this transient world. And that’s not a philosophy. It’s true. Anyone can know it if he examines his life. But I suppose you need the ability to reflect.
Sato grins at him. Is the composed monk becoming angry, experiencing emotion like the rest of us?
Please, Sato, says Hayashi.
Oh, we’re just having a little fun, says Sato. Aren’t we?
Shintoism is just a clever way for the government to unite the country, says the monk, biting the inside of his cheek. That’s all it really is. It’s a pagan belief system that says the emperor is of divine origin and everyone must obey him. It’s filled with silly rituals and frivolous festivals. If I throw a coin to the rain spirit, I will win favor and receive rain. And to the sun god, I pay an extra yen to ensure enough sun. For this, they are killing monks. They are burning down monasteries.
And Buddhism isn’t full of rituals and festivals? says Sato, rubbing his hands together.
The monk is about to blurt something, but forcibly stops himself, turns swiftly, and marches down the hallway.
There is a moment of awkward silence.
Please, says Hayashi, twisting his napkin in his lap. Please. I must ask you. Sato. Everyone. Please. Let’s enjoy tonight.
Yes, says Ayoshi, startled at Sato’s raw bluntness. And now her little fantasy of leaving with Sato and traveling to Europe shrivels up and is cast aside; ludicrous, how could she put up with his rudeness? His almost instinctual need to stir up calm waters?
You are both our guests, says Hayashi.
Sato snatches up a blank sheet of black paper and puts it back down. We were just having a little discussion, says Sato. He grabs the bottle. Now, Hayashi. What were you saying? He turns his gaze up to the ceiling. Oh, yes. What would you like to forget?
Hayashi pauses, trying to collect his thoughts and compose himself. The last bowl I made. I’d like to forget that.
Really? I thought it was rather interesting, says Ayoshi.
Tell him that again, says Sato.
It was different. But you destroyed it. You always do that.
Hayashi raises his eyebrows.
She glances down at his feet. Wrapped in white bulky sheets—the maid did it, she’s sure—his feet nest in healing herbs. And there is the monk, now in dry clothes, his face composed, the earlier anger almost disappeared, but a spark still lights his eyes, and a hint of it resides in the pursing of his lips.
Come. Sit down. Join us, says Hayashi.
There are big bowls of steaming sukiyaki, tempura shrimp, and an array of colorful sliced fish. The monk sits next to Hayashi, across from Ayoshi. Sato has stationed himself at the head of the table. He opens a green bottle.
; Everyone must try this, says Sato. Wine from France. He opens the bottle and pours everyone a glass. With all due respect to the monk, the French have their own form of Shintoism. They treat wine as if animated by supernatural beings. Wine is their god and they drink until they become animated.
He will only have one more glass, the monk tells himself, then he will excuse himself to say his evening prayers. His teacher once said the person who upsets you the most is your best teacher, but what can this man possibly teach him? Sato is still talking about this new drink of wine, and Ayoshi is smiling, as if applying some balm to this obnoxious man. He’s not prepared to think ill will of her, but it’s curious that she should have such a friend as this man. It reflects on her character, he thinks, though he’s not sure how.
AFTER DINNER, THEY SLIDE open the door and step out onto the wooden deck. The moon fans itself onto the wooden panels, and the snow lights up the garden. Hayashi finds his flute and asks the monk to play the bronze gong. Together they fill the garden with haunting sounds. The night air, dazzled now with stars, makes room for the music to fall over them like a web.
Sato takes Ayoshi in his arms. This is called dancing, my friends, he says. Western style.
The monk watches Sato’s hand on her narrow back. When Sato’s index finger presses too hard, he has to look away. Sato swirls her around and around, and her laughter rings out in the night. After the song ends, Sato dances over by Hayashi and takes the flute from his hands. Hayashi rises and takes Sato’s place.
No, no, says Sato. He pushes them together. There. That is dance. You move together, not separate bodies in space. Together. Together. Better.
Sato sits and begins again. He gestures to the monk to play a higher note.
Ayoshi’s fingers rest lightly on Hayashi’s back, not daring to move them from their original spot, as if she might break something. He seems so fragile, compared to Sato. Delicate bones and fragile flesh. She holds him carefully, worrying about his feet. This can’t be good for them. This morning, his work on the teahouse and now this, this dancing. He’s carefully rolling through his heel, his arch and ball, an acute attention to the placement of his feet.
Are you all right? she asks.
Fine, he says.
Your feet.
I said I’m fine.
She wishes he would sit down; he’s too clumsy and he’ll be in such pain tonight. Gradually they pull apart again. She feels the night air on her face. When the music stops, Ayoshi and Hayashi drop their arms to their sides. The monk slips into the house, excusing himself politely, and Ayoshi watches him go, surprised at what she was expecting; she thought she’d dance with him next.
Both of you need more practice, says Sato. Once a week. My orders.
Ayoshi glances into the darkness; not his feet, not tonight. She won’t do it. She can’t do it.
What if she began again with the plum tree, not the river? If she didn’t wait for him to speak to her, but painted the tree on the paper. Maybe Urashi would find her again, the blood-red leaves scattered around her.
Listen, says Hayashi.
In the quiet they hear a sound like a squeaky door rapidly opening and closing.
A snowy owl, she says.
I haven’t seen one since I was a boy, whispers Sato. What’s it doing down this far south?
I’ve never seen one, whispers Hayashi. What’s it look like?
Ayoshi tells him it’s pure white with black speckles and yellow eyes. The immature females are darker. It could be a male or older female, but I think it’s a female, she says. She must be in the tall cedar tree, nestled in the limbs. She likes that tree.
You’ve heard it before? asks Hayashi.
I heard her when I first arrived.
A straggler, says Sato.
Maybe she’s disoriented, says Hayashi.
I think she’s lost, says Ayoshi.
The three of them stand in the dark listening.
There she is. On the bottom limb on the right. See?
Oh, says Hayashi. Oh, my. She’s like a slice of the moonlight. Stunning. Look at her wings. And the owl turns its neck around, and there are its yellow blazing eyes. I should go get the monk.
No, let the monk be, says Sato. The bird is an adventurer. That’s what she is.
No, says Ayoshi, she’s lost.
HIS FEET THROB.
Hayashi steps inside to find a chair, and Ayoshi, looking for another bottle of sake, follows him inside. She sees his face contort in pain. Shall I? asks Ayoshi, her voice meek, betraying her reluctance.
No. You’re having such a good time. Please, go on.
Ayoshi hesitates only a moment, then returns to the porch with Sato. Hayashi calls for the maid.
Oh, says the maid, her mouth dropping open. You’ve stood too long, sir. They’re very swollen. They must hurt terribly. She brings a bucket of ice. You shouldn’t have danced, sir. He thrusts his feet into the bucket and picks up his flute and twirls it round and round, something to move his mind from the pain shooting up his calves, his knees, his thighs. When she is done, the maid wraps his feet in heavy wool socks. He asks for his boots.
Please, sir, you should rest.
He waves her off. A candle glows in the studio. Ayoshi must have left Sato and gone to the studio to paint. A walk to the garden will fill his lungs with the cold. When spring comes, he will plow the back fields and plant new green tea plants. Fields of tasseled green tea will stretch to the woods.
He’s full of reverie tonight. Perhaps it’s the glistening snow, he thinks, but it isn’t that; it is Ayoshi’s laughter ringing. She looked lovely tonight, her face lit up with smile after smile. More lovely than he’s seen her in a while. She’s been so happy since Sato and the monk arrived.
The light from the studio glows on the midnight grass. Perhaps he’ll knock on the door and say hello. He might try to make that bowl again, the one she said she liked. What did she see in it? he wonders. Probably just being polite. But maybe if he did it again, she could point out what is redeeming.
His feet begin to speak. No, let her be.
Hayashi walks over to the construction site and picks up a nail, suddenly remembering his earlier promise to the monk. Why did he say anything? He drops the nail. He’ll have to meet with the officials again. What can he say? Why would they listen to him? Pain shoots up his legs. For the first time, he wishes the monk had never come.
FRANCE
A NEW SHIPMENT IS ARRIVING, says Pierre, and the way he stands, with his chin tilted up, that ingenuous smirk on his face, Jorgen knows Pierre wants him to inquire what it is.
It is early October, the morning light seems unnaturally muted, and there is a touch of winter in the air. When Jorgen woke, he threw on his clothes, intent on finding Natalia, and he hoped by the time he reached her, he would have hacked from the block of ice inside the right words to convince her not to go. But here is Pierre, pulling on his earlobe.
Pierre shifts on the heels of his boots, unable to contain his surprise. Pigeons, he says.
Jorgen leans into his crutch. What?
Carrier pigeons, he says again with a triumphant smile.
Whatever for?
Pierre says that Paris is now almost completely encircled by Prussians. The Prussians, they are so much smarter than the French, found and severed the secret underground telegraph wire that lies in the bed of the Seine; they’ve already cut the overhead lines and now the government is desperate for a communication system. The balloons are so unreliable, and so, carrier pigeons will carry out messages and mail. I’ve won several lucrative government contracts, he says. They offered to pay me one hundred francs a bird, but I got them up to two hundred.
How are you going to get them into the city?
The tunnel.
But not all of them will make it through the sewer line.
Pierre shrugs. There’s more where they come from. It turns out there are quite a few carrier pigeon breeders in Tours.
Jorgen’s fingers ache
from the cold air. Dirt clusters underneath his nails, a stain of grease on his index finger. What do you know about pigeons?
Nothing. But I don’t need to know anything. You do because I’ve just put you in charge of them. The birds will be housed in the backyard. A cartload is arriving any minute.
Jorgen leans his back against the wall. Housed in what?
Again a triumphant smile. You are going to build the aviaries. Today. And tomorrow. And however long it takes.
A detonation of a cannon resounds, echoing from the Sevres and Meudon hills. Pierre and Jorgen wait until the sound dies down.
You can use two of the clerks to help.
Jorgen doesn’t move.
What are you waiting for?
I need to run an errand, says Jorgen.
Pierre stares at him, a dark gaze, his jaw clenched with uncompromising severity. I need this done now. There are plenty of hungry men out there who would do anything to have your job.
They stand glaring at each other. The moment drags on. Jorgen swallows and does a quick calculation, and he can’t do it, can’t leave now, not enough money. Goddamn stuck, he thinks, and this is the thing that kills a man’s spirit, he knows.
But your sister, says Jorgen, without thinking.
Pierre crosses his arms in front of him, waiting for him to explain.
He tells him what his sister has done.
The army? repeats Pierre. The French army? She is such an embarrassment to my family. She’s joined the army? What a fool. It’s her mother’s blood, not my father’s, he mutters. Her mother was a simple housemaid. He thinks about it for a moment. Well, we’ll throw her a going-away party. Send her off with a big hoorah. Get her good and drunk for once.
I was going to try and talk her out of it.
How? Pierre says, half laughing, a derisive flicker in his eyes. How exactly were you going to do that? You don’t know, do you? I thought so. She’s too headstrong. A dangerous idealist, and at her worst, a self-righteous bore. Let her save the world. That’s what she told you, right? She’s joining the French army to save Paris. She will lead the march to victory, in God’s name, of course. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes spittle from the corner of his mouth. And she has such nerve to call me arrogant.
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